Re: Title Pending
[ word count: 5666 ]
“Ughh… Masters Snow, White. My stomach hurts. Can’t we just reschedule the meeting for another time?”
“I am sorry Fifi, but this is something of the utmost importance for you. We cannot postpone this any longer in the case that you upset your sponsor.”
“Do you at least want me to get you medicine and heat pads dearie?”
“No need then. I’ll just try to push the feeling down and get it over with.”
Contrary to the professor’s words, she grips the marble countertop of the sink to steady herself until her knuckles are bone white. The sink water is running still, washing away the poor remnants of leftover lunch and gastric acid that had left her weak body.
Figaro looks up to see their complexion pallid in the mirror, even under the guise of powder and makeup decorating their face. The black silk suit they’re dressed in suffocates their neck much more than the lab scrubs they were wearing merely an hour ago. Like foreign skin, an uncomfortable feeling envelopes the professor inside and out, wanting to scratch and tear away at skin until it’s raw red with blood dripping into the white porcelain basin, eventually streaming with the running sink water.
Figaro’s reflection stares back at them with a grim expression, nothing like the Dr. Garcia the public thinks of them as. They try smiling in the dolled up way that they do for televised appearances, effortlessly easy and a relaxed snapshot at any angle. But it’s too stark, much too hollow to be presentable as the face of the kind picture perfect Professor.
She presses against sunken eyelids with the heel of her palms until hazy stars form in clusters in the dizzying black vision. Her hands are bone cold and clammy with sweat against the skin of her face.
Figaro doesn’t like this. Feeling any of this. The nerves under their skin buzzing. Their bleeding heart residing in the empty cavity of their chest. The sensation of their muscles running restlessly as all their muscles, tissues, and organs are overworked with each breath taken. Being human has never felt substantial in any way, the fallacy of life a mass of blood and meat and messy contradictions, all equating to a being as flawed as they are.
If the professor could have it her way, she’d be spending her night buried head deep in research until her brain burns numb with lines of codes and mechanics. To have the cool feel of metal at her fingertips, fidgeting at wires and robotics under the dim artificial light of the laboratory for hours on end.
But instead, her evening will be outside the confines of her one haven, complete with the formalities of business and socialites that she is utterly antiquated in.
“It’s inevitable, my dear child.” Snow tuts, as if he could read the professor’s mind, knowing her well enough that he likely has. “But there is merit at the end of arduous tasks.”
White, the perfect mirror to Snow, who knows the professor as much as he knows his twin and himself, follows through a beat second later. “You can make it through tonight’s dinner. And afterwards, we will spoil you rotten as much as you like.”
Figaro’s hands fall from her eyes. She looks down at her two assistroids. Together the pair stand tall beside her, reaching just under her waistline, with a smile etched on their faces too warm to be a simple programmed mechanical response.
Snow’s small hand takes Figaro’s own hanging one to rub circles in the palm of her hand as a soothing motion. White on her other side holds the one not occupied and strokes and squeezes her fingers, relieving the professor of how tight she often grips her hand.
Figaro crouches down to look her assistroids in the eyes, wide, round, and an unsettling shade of gold lending itself to how nonhuman they really are. Wrinkles are bound to form in the creases of her suit hunched over like this. However It's the last thing on their mind as Figaro draws their assistroids into a hug, childishly clinging onto their small backs.
It would be an odd image to the onset of outsiders, of an adult being spoiled by child figures like this. But Figaro has never needed more of the outside world than those that she has built out of metal scraps and love.
There’s nobody to intrude on them, and so the professor lets herself indulge in Snow’s peppy cheerings and White’s gentle affirmations.
After a while, Figaro’s breathing calms down to a point where she feels she isn’t choking. The sound of running water has stopped. Likely turned off by one of the twins while her head was buried in their hold.
“Are you sure you can’t come along? Or ask for Rustica to go in my place?”
Figaro looks at the two pleading. Snow retightens his hug, hand stroking the professor’s back soothing her little quivers. White wipes the brimming tears from her eyes, face in his hold gently squeezing her cheeks to get her to smile.
“We would love to dearie. But there’s no going against what your sponsor has requested. We can’t push it more than we already do.”
“On top of that, between you and Miss Ferucci, you’re the better fit seeing as how you’re the one whose upheld contact and reports. Maybe your charming personality and glib tongue will capture their heart after tonight.”
“…You have to be joking right, Master White?”
Figaro’s brows furrow right in time as White’s hands upturn the edges of her lips.
He finally stops playing with her face to fix up the smudged makeup while Figaro is still close to the ground. Behind the professor, Snow restyles her hair into the soft curls that framed her face, and pats out any wrinkles forming on her suit.
“Hmm, you never know. Humans always fall for the most unexpected of traits.”
“Maybe if you think of this as a dinner date Figgykins, it won’t be so bad.”
A shudder runs through Figaro’s entire body. Coworkers were one thing, but Figaro doesn’t think herself capable of loving another human intimately like that.
The thought of being looked at and touched by another… To confoundedly make mistakes stumbling through emotions of pain and confusion trying and failing to understand the other… All for something as intangibly volatile a concept that love is…
Figaro shakes her head, sick already of thinking about it. Maybe being human is never their strong suit in the first place, already failing to understand the complexities of what makes a person tick. That’s why they look the other way, to robots and AI and assistroids that can be broken down and understood with numbers and data, empirical values that make more sense to process than what they’re currently feeling.
“Please stop imagining such a disturbing scenario. I don’t need their affection, I just need to secure grant money for the next quarter at least.”
“So unromantic of you Figgykins.”
“That’s not a very cute thing for a little girl like Fifi to say.”
“The two of you are just watching too many dramas while I’m away. This is all just a formality I wish I could do without.”
With a final pat down, Snow and White take a step back to let Figaro rise to her full height once more. No matter how many times they do this routine, it never fails to surprise her how the twin’s handiwork transforms her into someone wholly new. Even if she does furiously scrub it off hours later to change back into the lab wear she practically lives in.
A glance at the clock on her phone tells Figaro that she still has time before her appointed meeting. It’s a not so small grief lingering deep inside her that the hour is approaching closer and closer.
Leaving the confines of her bathroom, she sweeps her apartment to make sure everything is in order. Snow and White will tidy everything up while she’s away, but it’s for her own sake of mind that her files and belongings are where she’s locked it.
The door to her apartment automatically locks behind Figaro as she shuts it close. Snow and White follow her steps to the outside of the complex and wait to see her off.
As the automated car pulls around to the front from a command on the twin’s system, Figaro tenses up feeling the anxiety from before arise again. Just as she’s about to fall back again, her two small assistants take her hands to squeeze one more time.
“You will be fine, Figaro dear.”
“Even if we’re not there physically, we will always be cheering beside you.”
Snow and White wave her off as the professor steps inside the vehicle, akin to parents watching their children leave for the first time.
Sitting in the car while it drives itself, or rather her assistroids’ driving it from a remote location, Figaro takes a moment to collect her thoughts.
The professor thinks of their sponsor, an odd entity they’ve been acquainted with only for a few weeks through a correspondence of courtesy emails and one-sided reports alike. Only the bare minimum information of their sponsor was disclosed to her on a need-to-know basis.
Neon lights of the city fly by in the window, dousing the darkened space in splotches of color coming and going. Figaro covers her eyes once more to hide from the blaring rays of light.
She slumps in the leather seats letting her body relax while her mind continues racing endlessly, fueled with nonstop anxiety and countless scenarios of how this meeting could go. All her rehearsed lines replay in the professor’s head like an old recording. She just needs to play her part like before, like all other times she puts on the face of Dr. Figaro Garcia.
Eventually the smooth rolling of the car comes to a subtle stop at its destination. Snapping her eyes open, Figaro straightens up promptly from where she’s seated. One last encouraging message from the twins flash by on the car’s monitor and Figaro feels herself ease a bit, if only just slightly.
The car door automatically swings open beside her. Figaro graciously steps out onto the pavement and makes her way to the grand glass doors of the high-rise industrial building. Her public persona melds onto their face. The professor walks along with a sociable kind of smile.
Only to the few who would personally know the professor would be able to see the strain of muscles in her hands as she desperately clenches them. Or how she maneuvers around the crowds of people to avoid brushing by them, steps light and smooth as if she were dancing a pas de deux for one.
The professor takes quick strides in the gilded lobby of the building, decorum a mixture of sleek modern style with renaissance showpieces on full display. At the epicenter of the upper class district, Figaro feels wholly out of place. Her appearance suited and dolled up fits right in with the high class atmosphere. But internally her insides twist and shrivel up from being casted under the dizzying lights of the chandeliers and gazes of the people.
Figaro manages to catch an elevator ride by herself. She lets out a small breath of relief in the quiet moment of reprieve she has to herself. The elevator swiftly lifts the professor to the 50th floor, as designated as their meeting spot. The numbers on the screen quickly tick by counting up the levels climbing by. Only the sound of the tip of her shoe tapping against the floor anxiously is a second faster.
Stepping off, Figaro finds that no other persons are loitering around the 50th floor. To the end of the hall there is an attending podium with an attendant present. The unnatural stillness of the figure indicates itself to likely being an assistroid. Not an uncommon sight when nowadays the upper class will employ assistroids more than actual working people in their services.
She approaches the server and internally sighs in relief that her observations were true.
“Good evening. I have a reservation for a table under the name God’s Lightning.” Figaro rolls up her sleeve and formally presents the biometric scan tattooed on her wrist as identification. The assistroid takes a moment to scan with its eyes, and after a green light flashes in the rings of its iris, the server smiles back in greeting.
“Dr. Garcia. Thank you for joining us this evening. Your companion has already taken the liberties of obtaining a seat. If you would please follow me this way.”
The server steps through the red oak entryway , directing on where to go. Figaro follows a close step behind, anxiety spiking at the thought of walking by dozens of other guests seated at the restaurant.
But to her surprise, the space is cleared of any and everybody. Even the typical wait staff that would be bustling about serving others is nowhere to be seen. Her sponsor must have rented out the entire restaurant for full uninterrupted privacy. A perk on one hand, not having to be surrounded in public by crowds of people. But it does nothing to suade the dread of having to sit one-to-one with the person who essentially your future rolls in their hands, fate and fortune carried and tossed by a mere whim.
Figaro is led to a secluded section of the restaurant, right by where the ceiling high glass window wraps around the corner. It lends itself to a breathtaking view of the night time city, the distant illuminations different from when she was driving by them. From such a height Figaro could see even the thousand year cherry blossom tree at the center of town, a timeless historical symbol in the face of Vollmond’s ever-advancing technoscape.
The assistroid bows back before withdrawing, leaving her alone with her dinner guest. Figaro’s eyes land on the lone figure clad in a dark suit and white coat standing by the far end table. Her breath catches, stomach sinking and the tension in her head rising.
The figure took on the appearance of man. Yet they were anything but. Their features were definitively sharp, sculpted from the likes of marble yet face marred by eye creases and furrow lines weathered with inevitable aging. Hair, silken smooth and impossibly long yet never seemed to grace the floor, was the color of the midnight never seen under the city haze and neon lights covering the sky. And from the profile that she could see, of eyes that hadn’t turned to look at Figaro’s poor quaking self, held a deep gleam of red that was incomparable to any jewels, flowers, and other objects of beauty cataloged in the hundreds of thousands databases the professor has skimmed the screen through.
They finally take notice of Figaro’s presence. Eyes, red eyes that seize her body with habitual fear, lazily draw to look at her. As a way to avoid shaking hands, Figaro instead quickly bows, hiding all her nerves under the guise of polite courtesy.
“God’s Lightning. Sir, it’s an honor to finally be able to meet you like this.” It was a miracle of how steady Figaro’s voice came out. That even after countless hours of practicing and reciting lines her insides were being shaken and eaten up by stress. She takes her small victories no matter how desperate they were.
“Dr. Figaro Garcia. Head researcher of Vollmond Institute Laboratory.” The voice of their sponsor matches the curt dry one used in the exchange of mails they wrote in. But physically hearing it for the first time in real life, it sounded much deeper than anything she expected. “You may sit.”
On command she steps forward to take her seat right across. Figaro’s eyes rake over the cloth spread of the table, complete with quality cutlery and wares as expected of fine dining restaurants. From the edges of her vision she can see the wrists of her sponsor, extending from his arms and attached to his body, reading his body language from the neck down though indiscernible as he sits still.
Figaro’s gaze doesn’t dare to travel up further, too afraid to meet the unsettling red that bores down on her. Maybe it wasn’t the most polite thing to do, but etiquette be damned if she was already this close to throwing up without even the first course being served.
The professor smiles politely hoping to carry on quickly, too quickly that her sponsor doesn’t dare call her out on any of her manners.
“Sir. I would like to personally thank you again for all your contributions made. Your work and donations have helped-“
“Dr. Garcia.” Their voice cuts her off lip service. “I was under the impression that you were afflicted with Assistroid Dependency.”
Figaro’s breathing stops momentarily. Her hand underneath the table claw squeezes at her wrist, tight and tense with nerves. She continues smiling.
“Well that is true. However, it is a relatively minor and harmless symptom, often common under my line of work. It will affect nothing regarding our meeting today.”
A steady rhythm echoes into empty space left after their words. Figaro’s eyes draw to the source, seeing that slim fingers tap against the table from across from her.
“And yet you have not once looked me in the eyes.”
“…My deepest apologies. However this is-“
“I am not one for small talk, nor do I care enough for it either. I will not force you to play in these meaningless pleasantries when you cannot even make eye contact. Do not fool yourself into thinking that this is anything more than business.”
Figaro is gutted silently. She chokes on her words, gnawing on her bottom lip until blood is drawn. Before her, God’s Lightning sits completely unfazed by his blunt choice of words, slicing through any and all rebuttals on her tongue.
In the back of their mind the professor rejoices at dropping all pretenses. But then is immediately greeted with the panic that this ruins any and all scenarios she had prepared for light socializing. The floor beneath her drops. Unsteady, weightless, and sick to her stomach.
An uncomfortable atmosphere settles between the two. Never before has Figaro been horrified over not having to speak to others. But God’s Lightning isn’t a simple “other” that she can avoid as necessary. He’s the bastard that dragged her, Figaro Garcia specifically, alone, out here tonight, unprecedented by all other forms of contact they’ve had. It’s hard not to oblige the ridiculous request when they’re single-handedly funding her life’s research.
Figaro doesn’t remember much of the meal after that. Dinner is served on her plate before she even realizes she ordered something. The light scraping of metal cutlery against cold porcelain grates on her ears, and food is barely registered in her palette, heavy on their tongue and feeling even more solid as it goes down to settle with the turmoil of their insides.
The only thing that feels even remotely easy to swallow is the wine poured into her glass. Figaro never planned on drinking much. But with a presence as heavy as the one across from her, she doesn’t think she can even make it through the night without her head light bordering the edge of inebriation.
With the gentle sound of silverware being set on the table, Figaro knows by the cue that she can stop robotically shoveling food into her mouth.
“I will be frank with you Dr. Garcia. I am considering withdrawing support from your project.”
“W-what?!”
Glasses shake with Figaro’s sudden movement to stand up in shock. Her already weak body is woozy from the rush of blood flow, but even more pressing is the ringing in her eardrums from her sponsor’s words. Bitten nails dig into the palm of her hands, breaking skin and the smallest amount of blood.
“Apologies for my manners, but I implore you to reconsider Sir. If it’s regarding progress, I have thoroughly sent you reports on a biweekly basis. From the start until now, significant strides have been made and development is still steadily progressing. What is there to be unsatisfied with?”
The silence settling in the space between the two is deafening. God’s Thunder ruminates on his words, each second leaving Figaro to fall further down mentally until they’re desperately grasping at lost thoughts.
“Garcia. You are aware of what industry I control.”
The answer was obviously yes. For as gracious as their donations have been, Figaro could not help but hold both ends doubt and curiosity towards the source, pushing her to dig up whatever she could surrounding them. Weapons dealing, trading and distribution. Confidential technology developments that teeters warmongering. Hands in pockets of politicians and public figures alike. It would be better to ask where the influence of God’s Lightning didn’t extend to.
If Figaro were a better person, the moral dilemma of where their funding came from would haunt her. But dirty money is still money in the end, so she never refused nor pushed for more. It’s not like they’re following ethics to the T either.
She swallows down her thick saliva, nodding quietly as prompted. Her sponsor continues on.
“Then you are aware that there is nothing meaningful for me to gain from this. Potential at first, and possible capital, but nothing I can truly benefit from my end of the deal. I was drawn into this due to your acquaintance with Tiletta Flores in the first place, but she has since retired and passed away. As such, I see no reason as to continue sponsoring y-“
The professor bangs against the table interrupting them before they could finish. The delicate glasses shake even more than the first time before tipping over and shattering against the pristine white table linen. Wine and shards of glass have somehow clung onto the edges of Figaro’s skin but it all feels numb to them.
Out of nervous desperation, Figaro glances at the other through her bangs from where her head was tucked down. She can’t get a read on them. She doesn’t understand what they want, what they’re thinking, or anything about God’s Lightning. Without even getting a word in from her side, this will be over akin to the wisps of a flame smothered out.
Figaro’s thoughts race to say something, anything of substance. What could he possibly hope to gain from this? What was the one thing they were even striving for?
“A child! I can- I can give you a child!”
The sentence flies out of the professor’s mouth in desperation faster than she can even fully process it. The lag catches up, and Figaro fully berates herself for her stupidity.
‘stupid stupid stupid why the hell did I even say that some second sexiest intellectual I am do you understand how that sounds aaaaarrrghh-‘
The corner of God’s Lightning mouth twitches in a minuscule movement, something easily missed to most others but caught by Figaro’s keen eye. Whether out of amusement, annoyance, or complete befuddlement though is completely out of her skill capacity, emotional intelligence something the professor utterly lacks in. (And apparently by the looks of it logical intelligence now too).
The wine glass in her sponsor’s hand, untouched and unbothered by Figaro’s light fuss, is set down softly against the mess of a dinner table. God’s Lightning folds their hands to rest their chin atop. Eyes the color of blood pierce through the professor. Figaro quickly diverts her gaze to the floor again, sweating under the intense pressure.
“…A child, you say?”
“Y-Yes. I don’t mean an actual human child. But rather, um, one of my own personal assistroids...”
Maybe because the stupid idea already teetered over and spilled from her mouth, but Figaro keeps talking, brain formulating plans and conjectures into semi-coherent speech in real time.
“Allow my presumptions, but you fail to see the limits of what this project can achieve. If you are going to continue investing in our- in my research, then I want you to fully understand what my goal is.”
A small moment is taken to pause and let herself breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Figaro straightens her back, eyes steady on the floor. She’s conscious of her words, her voice clear and tone even to be heard for what it is.
“I don’t want assistroids to simply be tools. Or our friends without a question for what they really want. I want them to have a heart. To have thought and free will. Can humanity truly know liberation from loneliness if our companions themselves cannot even dream of it? Just as I want to love my assistroids and be loved by them, in turn I want to teach them what love actually is. Only then can we move forward to a future as equals.”
Figaro’s breath heaves at the end of her words. She can’t remember the last time she’s talked to another human this long. Her heart beats rapidly inside her chest, an uncomfortable thumping that she grips the lapels of her suit as an attempt to calm down.
Across from her, God’s Thunder sits in silence. A second of eons composed of still quiet air, only disturbed by the now hushed huffs Figaro takes to catch breath, stretches between them. Still standing up leaning against the table, Figaro’s legs weakly shake in anticipation, uneasiness deep in her bones and gripping every tense nerve cell in her body.
“Your ambitions are something I cannot fathom.” Figaro clenches her fists, “…but I will give you one week.”
Grey eyes dart up in surprise. They accidentally make contact with sharp scarlet watching her from across, before flinching away on instinct. In that split second, Figaro felt like she could break through the impasse that was her sponsor’s expressions. But she knows herself to be too cowardly to look again.
“I thank you for your grace and cooperation then. My assistant will send an email to you regarding meeting arrangements and pickup.”
The professor’s voice is quietly trembling, overworked from the stress experienced in the past hour. No further response is given on her sponsor’s end besides a simple hum of acknowledgment, but Figaro is fine with that alone.
Figaro draws back from the table to see the mess she’s made and winces at the sight of it. Somehow through all the food scattered and drinks spilled, God’s Lightning remains untouched. She bows with the last of her energy she can dedicate to courtesy.
As she’s about to rush out as quickly as humanly possibly, a sudden thought stops the professor in her tracks. Figaro turns back halfway to call out to the other.
“Ah. Before I set up the assistroid’s systems, I’ll need a name to put under the owner’s ID. Of course I can leave it as your pseudonym, but I recommend using your own name as it helps establish a bond with the assistroid.”
“…”
Not for the first time tonight, God’s Thunder delays speaking. She’s beginning to understand what the man meant by adversion to small talk.
Yet in their short interactions together, Figaro picks up the second of hesitation before he speaks.
“Sir?”
“…Oz.”
“Oz? Oz…”
Figaro’s voice echoes the name, rolling it on her tongue, familiarizing the taste of the syllable said.
“Is something the matter?”
“No, it’s nothing. I’m just reminded of an old fairytale featuring a wizard with the same name is all. …Well I’ll be taking my leave then.”
Figaro rushes out towards the entrance without a look back. Once in the still vacant hallway, she finds the nearest private bathroom before locking the doors and collapsing onto the floor.
A guttural sob escapes her breath immediately. In the quiet moments the professor has to herself, Figaro tries to recuperate her energy reserves to even walk out of the building. It’s only when she tries to hold her head that she realizes the micro shards of glass and wine sticking to her hand.
Figaro picks herself up and drags herself over to the sink to wash out what she can. A glance to the mirror finds that she is still somehow presentable, partially thanks to the dark suit they’re dressed in masking all the stains.
Once her hands are dried, still somewhat tingling but better than before, Figaro pulls out her phone and calls her one and only immediate contact.
“Figgykins? Are you done? How did it go?”
“Fifi? How are you holding up? Do you want us to pull up to the building now?”
“Before all that… Master Snow. Master White. Please praise me like you said you would.”
“Of course dearie. You did such a good job.”
“We’re so proud of you, Figaro. Our precious little girl.”
“Good work tonight. We love you.”
Figaro sighs softly at the voices of the twins, the tension leaving her body from the taught posture it took. She still feels the buildup of bile in the depths of her chest, but it washes away the longer she’s on call with her two little cheerleaders.
“Thank you Masters Snow, White. I’ve just finished up my meeting and am about to head down, but please stay on the line for a little bit longer until I’m outside.” She gently speaks into the other end of the phone.
“Understood.”
The twins talk about the time spent together while the professor was out. It’s easier to focus on their voices as Figaro follows the path she took treading inside. Her eyes are kept on the floor two steps ahead to avoid eye contact with anybody, yet fuzzy head still operating enough to be aware to avoid incoming bodies.
The night’s cool air nips at Figaro the moment she steps outside. Nary few are outside at this time of night in the upper class district, except for a few businessmen and a couple or two keeping to themselves. Figaro manages to spot and flag down her car and heads straight towards it.
The black car door swings open in her presence. She all but falls down into the awaiting seats. This time, the twins are in the car with her, seated side by side right next to where the professor usually sits.
“You did well, Fifi. Allow us to shower you with spoils and treats as a reward for your work.” White’s small hands brush through blue locks of hair, messing it up from its perfect style. Another pair of arms move to remove Figaro’s suit jacket, though they catch at her wounded hand.
“What happened here? Did they attempt to hurt you? With a word, we’ll go back and-“
“It’s nothing like that, Master Snow. I just got carried away on my end.” Figaro cuts off the threat forming in their words. After tonight with the already terrible impression Oz holds of Figaro, she doesn’t need it dropping any deeper than rock bottom.
“Anyways. I would love to go back home and sleep this awful night away, but I need you two to take me to the lab.”
“Did something happen? We cleared your schedule for the rest of the night and tomorrow morning.” Snow asks.
“All your work for the institute was done when you left for the day. Did you forget something back there?” White’s question follows.
“Something like that. I’ll explain when we get there, but all I can say is that plans have shifted, as annoying as it is. I think I’m going to have to stay up all night again, so for now I’ll use what little time I have to rest a bit.”
Figaro’s eyes snap shut before she can hear any of the twin’s advice. The quiet automated driving accompanied by her two assistroids stroking the top of her head lulls the professor to the edges of sleep, worn out from the stress of the evening.
By habit Figaro wakes up by herself when they’re close to Vollmond Laboratory. She rubs the remaining drowsiness out from her eyes and finds that her hand has been completely cleaned and bandaged, courtesy of her assistants.
It was only a matter of scanning her ID to get clearance into the institute. At the deepest ends of the building secluded from the rest is the Artificial Intelligence Research department, where Figaro is designated as head of.
The professor’s steps and her accompanying assistroids are the only ones echoing in the narrow, poorly lit hallway. All the other researchers have either gone home for the night, or are too buried in their own respective projects to even notice her entrance.
At the last door of the hall, Figaro unlocks the entryway to her personal lab space conjoined with her office. The lights automatically turn on in the presence of her movement.
The professor sees that a scattered mess of papers and research materials is left on one of the examination benches, courtesy of Rustica. In comparison, Figaro’s own research portfolio is neatly filed and locked away in her cabinet from when she left earlier in the day. She shakes her head, though a fond smile appears on her face at the never changing messy habits of her partner.
Figaro leaves Rustica’s mess be, knowing Chloe will surely come and clean it up for her later. Walking past it, she makes her way to one of the doors off to the side of the lab and enters the terminal room where all her children are.
In the last row, second to the end rests a child with synthetic white hair the color of stardust. Their eyes closed shut as they lay in rest mode, an imitation to the human habit of sleep yet so realistic it’s indistinguishable between the two.
Figaro’s hand, the one unbandaged, brushes against the assistroid’s round cheek with a gentle touch as if handling something precious.
“Hello from the world of waking dreams, Arthur.”
